The terrified squirrel would weave his way thru the crowded aisles, making his way toward the restrooms. His eyes were glazed over in shock, and a tendril of drool hung from his lips. His heart raced, and every breath he took was shallow and quick. His final moments seemed very unreal. All sensory input was either dulled or enhanced significantly. But that may have just been becos' of all the adrenaline.

With each trembling step, he used whatever voluntary brain power he had available to avoid running into anyone. By this point, he'd forgot why he even got up from his seat. Or where he originally intended to go and do. Or why he was here at all in the first place. But by asking all these questions would be overthinking the situation. It was the worst mistake Razzion ever made - and also the last.

He barely nudged one of the bystanding gods as he stumbled along. The surprise brought by the light brushing sensation was enough to cause the poor squirrel to trip over his own footpaws. Such irony! Only one such as Razzion could ever commit an otherwise trivial error under these gravely dire circumstances.

Razzion hit the ground hard. Really hard; as tho' he had endured a horrible car wreck, but survived with minimal injuries. His handpaws stung, and a sharp paroxysm of pressurised pain jolted from his knees. He immediately brushed it off and stood up, but before he had the chance to start running away, he was sieized by some magic force. Worse than the agonising feeling of being denied mobility, was the forcefield he was held inside. It felt a hundred times more painful than being dunked into a vat of some corrosive liquid substance.

The doomed squirrel was then lifted up and swiveled around, to gaze into the face of the god whom he had sinned against. The god spoke in an arcane tongue, yet Razzion could somehow understand it;

" H O W . . . . D A R E . . . . Y O U "

And then the poor squirrel was finally killed. He died right then and there. He had plenty of time to fully experience his body being burned from the inside out. Screaming was fruitless; not only did it emit no sound, but the oxygen fueled the fire inside his lungs. His internal organs melted, followed by his muscle tissues and skin, which slid wetly off his skeleton, that was being charred into brittle flakes of sooty dust....

That was it. There was nothing was left of his furry little body. His soul on the other hand, would proceed to suffer endless eternities forever in the Void. All becos' of making the misteak of entering the Arena. He certainly knew better too, but failed to demonstrate sufficient self-control. That I think, is the most ironic part about his horrid execution.

A couple minutes later, the two arrive back at the shop. Pulling out a small box with a shoulder strap from it, he fills it with bags of potato chips before handing it to Trubbol with a smile. "Here ya go" he says. "If you can sell that out, Ill give ya a free potion."

Trubbol nods, clumsily grabbing the bag and spinning around running back out of the shop. He runs down along the side of the spectators area shouting as loud as he can. "Chips! G-get your f-fresh chips!" He runs frantically around calling out, hoping that someone was hungry.